Samuel Beckett

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.

To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping, living.

There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.

What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.

I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.

To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.

The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.

That passed the time. It would have passed in any case. Yes, but not so rapidly.

For the only way one can speak of nothing is to speak of it as though it were something, just as the only way one can speak of God is to speak of him as though he were a man, which to be sure he was, in a sense, for a time, and as the only way one can speak of man, even our anthropologists have realized that, is to speak of him as though he were a termite.

It is useless not to seek, not to want, for when you cease to seek you start to find, and when you cease to want, then life begins to ram her fish and chips down your gullet until you puke, and then the puke down your gullet until you puke the puke, and then the puked puke until you begin to like it.

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.

Estragon: Suppose we repented. Vladimir: Repented what? Estragon: Oh...(He reflects.) We wouldn’t have to go into the details. Vladimir: Our being born?

Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.

It's a lot to ask of one creature, it's a lot to ask, that he should first behave as if he were not, then as if he were, before being admitted to that peace where he neither is, nor is not, and where the language dies that permits of such expressions.

Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.

We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?

There is man in his entirety, blaming his shoe when his foot is guilty.